


Africa

by iseoks



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Auror Ron Weasley, Draco Malfoy & Ron Weasley Friendship, Draco being whiny and needy, HP: EWE, Harry is the Designated Driver even tho there's no driving, Healer Draco Malfoy, M/M, Oneshot, Very Desperate Sex, also Draco is very sassy in this, and possessive, based on a tumblr post i made lol, drunk Ron and Draco, sort of a songfic??? i mean not in the traditional way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 11:12:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12769815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iseoks/pseuds/iseoks
Summary: "Does he even want to do this, Harry?"A stroke of hesitation, as though he so much as thinks about lying, before opting out of a disaster asking to occur. "He doesn't know about it. But trust me, I'll make him do it. Just like I'm making you. You're both important to me, so this, too, is important to me. Please, Ron. Just give it a go."





	Africa

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be short.
> 
> also it's based on [this tumblr post](http://malfoid.tumblr.com/post/167603251465/okay-but-imagine-harry-trying-to-convince-ron-to) i made a few days ago lmao.

"No."

A frustrated exhalation ensues. It had to have been no less than twenty consecutive minutes of this back and forth; of Ron lifting the point of his nose to the ceiling indignantly and Harry trying to muster up every trick in the book to get his best friend to cooperate. The problem is, more than nine years of friendships has allowed for him to acquire quite an impressive few chapters brimming with tactics - but knowing which one to use at the right time is a game of chance. Despite what others may say about him, the sixth Weasley boy isn't all that simple-minded.

Green eyes project as much dejection as they can - a great majority of which is genuine but another considerable slab may be utilized for a theatrical advantage. It's times like these Harry can't be too surprised he was almost sorted into Slytherin.

"Come on, Ron. Why?"

"You know why," insists the redhead, rolling his eyes and turning his back. Harry squints, now that his friend can't see him. The sad-eyes must have been working, considering Ron's sudden refusal to look at him directly.

He'll take any progress he can get, at this point, but he still persists.

"Yes, I do know why. And it's a stupid reason, Ron. Come on," he echoes himself, closing in on the other man's corner of the room, "things are different, now. It's been more than two years. You know that Draco ... he's not the person we met on the first day of first year. He's more of himself, now." Harry's nostrils liberate yet another sigh, but one far lighter than its predecessor.

"I don't even know why I'm telling you this, really. You already know it. You've been around him since the Battle."

"It's weird," Ron interjects, though Harry had mostly been through the annex of his original statement, "hearing you defend Malfoy. I get it, you two are a thing now, and believe me, I know he's not the same slimy, snot-nosed, numb-skulled git he was all those years ago. But it's just ... weird, Harry," Ron offers his finest attempt at articulation with a shrug of his shoulders, and a helpless glimmer in his eye that tells Harry of his authenticity.

The dark-haired boy threads a hand through his own fringe, pushing it back pensively and unintentionally revealing the infamous bolt etched above his brow. "It is weird," he concedes, shoulders lowering as a bit of a laugh seeps into his tone, "trust me, I wasn't expecting for us to become 'a thing.' I didn't plan on falling in love with him - hell, I didn't even plan on kissing him after the royal mess that rendered both of us emotional trainwrecks-"

"Well, even I saw that coming," quips Ron, some matter-of-factualness saturating his tongue, "once we got older, it was clear as day he had a crush on you. But maybe I was so caught up in how much I couldn't stand the little bastard that I didn't notice how up his ass you were getting to be, too."

Harry has to laugh at this. He can't stop himself - and Ron seems appreciative, with the sudden brightness of his smile. But his countenance retains some somber hue almost immediately, which Harry by now recognizes to mean Ron is reconsidering the terms before him.

"Does he even want to do this, Harry?"

A stroke of hesitation, as though he so much as thinks about lying, before opting out of a disaster asking to occur. "He doesn't know about it. But trust me, I'll make him do it. Just like I'm making you. You're both important to me, so this, too, is important to me. Please, Ron. Just give it a go."

The redhead notes the earnestness in Harry's plea, and internally curses himself for having such an enormous soft spot for his best friend. It isn't as though he hasn't been uncomfortable for Harry's sake before.

"Alright, alright. I'll have a drink with Malfoy."

The manner in which Harry's face lights up is so delightful, it's almost annoying.

* * *

 

To Potter's pleasant shock, Draco puts up a lot less of a fight. He seems annoyed that Harry signed him up for something without telling him first, reminding his lover that he has his own life and schedule to fulfill, but Harry can tell it's just for show. Some distant glitter in Draco's eyes hints toward some degree of excitement.

"It's just a simple bar at the edge of Diagon Alley," explains Harry, noticing the way the blonde is studying his closet. "Nothing fancy, entirely casual. No need to overdress, Love."

"Overdress," repeats Draco, in such a way that one might actually disregard his likelihood to do such a thing. "As if I'd put that much effort into-"

"Be nice." Harry stops him, raising slightly from his seat on the edge of Draco's vanity, "You wouldn't believe the hurdles I had to jump to get Ron to agree to this."

The fairer of the two rolls his eyes. "Well, what's the use if I can't even be myself?"

"You can," retorts Harry, taking lazy steps over to where his lover sorts through his shirts, to frame his chin within the elegant curve of the man's shoulder, "that's why I told you to be nice. I'm telling you to be yourself."

Draco appears to freeze, the sound of velvet-covered hangers sliding along one of the metal bars within the massive closet ceasing entirely. Without turning his head, his eyes raise to their upper-right corners to see Harry's visage suddenly beside his own; the auror's head cocked slightly to a side.

Weighted silence passes between them. Draco is discretely grateful that Harry has recognized his kindness despite the shadows of the past, and Harry finds the slight pink appearing at the apples of his lover's pale cheeks too adorable to disregard. Then, abruptly, the silence is martyred with a, "Shut up, Potter," which they both know is synonymous with a concession.

Now facing him, Harry's palms seek refuge atop Draco's deceivingly dainty-looking shoulders - thin and pretty, they are, but they can carry the weight of undermined and unforgiven genius - and uses this new leverage to pull his partner closer.

"I think we both know there's just one way to get me to shut up."

Gray eyes roll theatrically, but the Malfoy heir's pigmented lips curve into a knowledgeable smirk. "... We Slytherin are known to use the most effective means to meet desired ends."

"Or beginnings," murmurs Harry, green eyes unabashedly focused on Draco's lips as he takes the initiative to absentmindedly trace his tongue over his own.

Without warning, the aristocrat's hips crash into Harry's, as next their chests collide and moments before lips seal the final point of contact, Malfoy drawls lowly, lids so low his steely gaze peeks through long lashes, "Oh, shut up."

The resulting kiss is hard, rough, and hot with passion. Harry allows his lover to lead for the time being, savoring the velvety-sweet taste of his tongue pressing beckoningly against Harry's own. Their groins rut desperately against one another, chasing friction but blocked by the increasingly unnecessary amount of clothing still worn by either man.

To cope, the slightly younger man fills both his fists with the plush flesh filling out Draco's small, but cute little arse, earning him a moan around his tongue and desperate fingers bruising his shoulders to bring him impossibly closer. At this point, Harry takes over - making use of his wanton grip upon his lover's rear to hoist him high, a desire-driven instinct causing the snow-haired mage not only to moan, but to lock his legs around the sturdy waist of his partner.

Deeper and deeper he sinks into a sea of lust, the cement block to which his feet are bound is comprised of nothing but Harry's scent, his gaze, the feel of his skin. Their tongues nearly intertwine before the older suddenly bursts up for air from the surface; his senses hit him like air condensed with ice.

"We can't," rasps Draco, his voice still fresh with need, but his rational brain buoyant enough to keep him above the point of no return. "We'll be late, and I won't have time for a shower. And I don't know about you, but I'm not up for explaining to Weasley why I'm sweaty and smell like you."

Having maintained a fierce pout until the closing sentence, at which he bubbled up with laughter, Harry touches the tips of their noses together and barely resists the urge to nuzzle. He opens his eyes, dark lashes framing emerald pools aswim with love, at Malfoy's gorgeous reflection.

"Alright. But we're picking up where we left off the moment we get back."

Breathing an expectant syllable of a chuckle, a smirk ascends gracefully to power over Draco's countenance. "As if I didn't know that already."

* * *

They manage to be a few minutes late, despite Harry's best efforts. Upon deciding what to wear, Draco insisted upon smoothing out a stubborn wrinkle that just so happened to mar the article's otherwise smooth charmeuse. Harry couldn't feign surprise, even if his heart was in it.

They enter the bar hand in hand, which causes Ron to recognize them almost immediately. The barkeep greets Harry warmly and nods toward Draco respectfully, and both gestures are returned with informality before Harry finds Ron in his spectacles.

"You two are late," Ron remarks, eyeing his wristwatch, "I'd ask why, but I'd rather keep my dinner down."

Malfoy rolls his eyes, and Potter laughs boisterously, waving a dismissive hand. "It's nothing like that, Ron, Draco here just got his head in a dilly about his shirt."

Predictably, Ron's eyes scan over Draco's shirt, eventually (and somewhat unintentionally) following the curve of his collarbone to his gaze. They both look away from each other as though their eyes had been burned.

"Someone around here ought to take pride in their appearance," says Draco, eyes finding Harry's, which eases the appearance of a jovial smirk.

Ron catches onto the joke, as otherwise he wouldn't have, and actually chuckles before he can stop himself. "Gee, thanks, Malfoy."

"Don't fret, Weasley, you look better than Potter in his wine-coloured jumper," teases the blonde, to Harry's feigned offense.

"This jumper compliments my eyes!"

Laughter is shared between the three of them, which sweetens Harry's resulting smile. Maybe this will be easier than he initially thought.

"Well, sit down, Malfoy. Have a drink, and rest your ego for a little while."

Hours elapse with growing ease as drinks are downed and words, traded. Harry purposefully watches his intake, discreetly eyeing the clock every now and then until the timing is just right. The stroke of midnight names the atmosphere and Harry nods to himself, suddenly standing from his stool.

Draco's glance catches his movement near automatically, the heir thinking to summon his coat. "Are we leaving?"

"I am," answers Harry, his jacket materializing to his command, "I promised Hagrid I'd help out with something. You two should stay here for a little while, until I get back."

"Well ... I can take Malfoy home, if he wants," offers Ron, glancing toward the subject for confirmation.

"No, no, really. Stay," insists Harry, and Malfoy's eyes remain focused on him until he indulges Ron's gaze.

Understanding passes between them that Harry isn't asking.

"... Alright," Draco agrees, the unsurety about being alone with Weasley for the first time near tangible in his demeanor.

"Brilliant! You two have fun, now," says Harry, rushing toward the door, "try not to drink too much!"

Before either occupant of the bar can respond, Harry is gone. Ron's tongue traces nervously over his lower lip, and Draco's eyes are trained on the rim of his nearly-empty glass.

"So ..." Ron ventures, clearing his throat so aggressively that he nearly coughs himself to a stupor. Alarmed, Draco's eyes dart toward him and the Weasley raises his hand dismissively when he detects the intent for the Healer to help. "I'm fine, sorry. Air's dry," he laughs shallowly, and Draco relaxes in his seat, humming as his lips barely curve.

Thunder crackles distantly, breaking the resulting silence and giving Ron the audacity to try a second time.

"You went back, huh? After everything was rebuilt. How was eighth year?"

"It went well," answers Draco, surprise visible across his face that Ron has even the slightest amount of interest in such details about his life. He chances to go on, "It wasn't the same, though. Without ... Snape."

"Yeah," sighs Ron, looking into his glass. "At least you got the chance to really bond with him. Harry and Mione and me spent all our time there thinking he was the bad guy ... it's rotten, that we didn't get the chance to see all the good he'd done before he was gone."

Draco's lips press to a flat line, gaze traveling slowly from the rim of his glass, to the bar, to Ron. "I don't blame you. I'm sure he wouldn't've, either ... he knew what he was getting into, as a double agent. Still, I know it was hard for him ... to care about someone so much, only for them to hate your guts."

This prompts Ron to raise his head, breaking his focus on the reddish liquid in his glass. For reasons unbeknownst, he feels as though Draco really does mean that he knows what that's like.

Harry really had been right.

"You know, Malfoy ... you're not bad. You're not bad at all."

This elicits a soft laugh, and for Draco to down the rest of his drink. "I know."

The redhead smiles, before calling the barkeep back.

"Ey, barkeep! Another round over here, on me."

* * *

 

The hour approaches for Harry's return, and when it arrives, he doesn't at all expect what he finds.

Ron and Draco are nearly slumped over the bar, arms around each other's shoulders as slurred laughter flows rhythmically out of them. Glasses litter the surface of the bar and an empty bottle of whiskey sits between them, while Ron toys with the cork between his index and thumb.

"Merlin's mustache," Harry groans, as obviously they had disregarded his last request upon leaving them to their own devices. Ron looks at him first, though surely Draco had felt his presence, even in such a state.

"'arry!" Greets the Weasley, and Harry exhales as he approaches where they're huddled together at the bar. "Hey, mate, you're back!"

"Yes, I am," responds the darkest-haired of the three, making his way between the two stools where he encloses both men's shoulders in his wingspan, leaning over them. "I can see you've really had a good time, huh?"

"You missed out, Potter," giggles Draco, and Harry knows his lover's blood is probably all whiskey by now, "Ron started up singing that muggle song you showed us last year, next thing you know we're harmonizing like a bloody chorus!"

"Muggle song?" Harry's memory races, and as the recollection hits him, green eyes trace their circumferences dramatically. "You two are bloody embarrassing. Just how much did you have? Can you even stand up?"

"Relax, 'arry," says Ron dismissively, "D'you wan' me to buy you a drink?"

"No," Harry answers, "no one is buying anymore drinks tonight. Come on, we're going home. Ron, we're taking you back. I just hope Hermione doesn't murder me for enabling this."

It turns out that the drunken pair can, in fact, support their own weight - albeit, barely - but Harry is relieved he won't have to haul both of them down Diagon Alley. He's sore from lifting the abandoned harpie eggs that Hagrid had found just beyond the outermost ring of the so-called "Forbidden" Forest, and certainly he couldn't handle the weight of two grown men piled atop his recovering spine.

Despite his slight annoyance, Harry couldn't be happier. Though it would really have to wait until they're both sober and interacting on a regular basis, two of the most important people in his life seem to have sparked a genuine connection, just as he'd hoped. While not in the most conventional way, everything had gone to plan.

Silence thickens the air for a few thought-filled moments, aside from the occasional crackle of thunder signifying that they'd better hurry up and find a floo. Harry is less than sure about having someone so detrimentally drunk apparate; despite the fact that Draco, like his mother, has mastered the art of it, but at least with a floo he could make sure they'd reached their destination unscathed. He'd rather not have them use magic at all, but being rained on is even less appealing an option.

Thankfully, a bookstore is still open, featuring a fireplace they could use.

So focused on reaching their destination, Harry is caught off guard by the sudden low sound of Ron's voice.

" _I hear the drums echoing tonight, but she hears only whispers of some quiet conversation_ ," his tone is slurred and slow, which is ridiculously appropriate for the lyrical composition that both Harry and Draco recognize instantaneously.

"Ron-"

" _She's coming in twelve-thirty flight, the moonlit wings reflect the stars that guide me toward salvation,_ " the redhead ignores the hesitant murmur of his name, fueled by Draco's loud giggling to continue in song, " _I stopped an old man along the way, hoping to find some old forgotten words or ancient melodies._ "

"Ron, please. I'm trying not to get us lost," Harry attempts to reason, but dealing with two drunk wizards makes way for about as much reason as what could be found in the gossip section of _The Daily Prophet_.

A moment of silence comes, however - and for exactly a moment, the Auror is convinced that he'd successfully silenced his friend. The moment concludes, however, when Draco's slightly higher-pitched tone chimes in.

" _He turned to me as if to say ... 'Hurry boy, it's waiting there for you!'_ "

As signified by another deep release of breath, Harry simply gives up.

Latching onto his lover's back, Draco hoists up his own weight and settles it there, earning him a slight groan from Harry that he hardly hears - perhaps he is too busy with his lips brushing against the man's ear in the process, which the younger can't deny gives him a little chill.

" _Gonna take a lot to drag me away from you ~!_ " Passionately, the blonde slurs the chorus as though the Alley is his street-lit stage - and Ron seems to share such a belief, as his lower tone joins with the next lyric; " _There's nothin' that a hundred men or more could ever do ~!_ "

Ron's arm forms a clasp along Harry's waist, and the sudden spike in body heat nearly fogs the latter's glasses.

Their harmony fills the darkened streets, dramatized with the few streetlights making the pathway visible, as most of the shops have closed down at this hour.

" _I bless the rains down in Africa ~~!_ "

If he weren't so annoyed, perhaps, Harry may admit that the way their voices blend is actually rather impressive. What sliver of focus he'd managed to retain is broken by Draco whispering in his ear, requesting Harry finish off the chorus.

With a roll of his eyes, Harry almost refuses - but he catches sight of the last open shop at the end of the block.

" _Gonna take some time to do the things we never have._ "

* * *

Unceremoniously, Harry drops down onto the recently-washed silk and linen of the bed he shares with Draco. The older male approaches the foot of the bed, pulling mindlessly at his clothes.

"You and Ron really seemed to hit it off tonight, huh?" asks Harry, and Draco smiles at his reflection in the vanity, popping his buttons through their designated slots along his shirt.

"He said I wasn't bad. That I wasn't bad at all."

The alcohol had something of a chance to settle since Harry had dragged him away from the bar, but its influence is present enough for Draco to fail to hide how much Ron's words mean to him. And they mean quite a bit to Harry, as well - who smiles brightly at the revelation.

"Did he?" The recognizable rhetorical value of the question leaves Malfoy comfortable enough not to answer, and instead fold his shirt and stow it away for a different occasion. "That's great. He always thought that way, you know. At least after the war, he did. He just never had the guts to say it."

"Mm," Draco hums, acknowledging that he'd heard his lover's words. "I figured, actually. Still, to hear it ..."

He doesn't finish that thought - perhaps because his partially-drunk mind can only focus on one task at a time, considering that he'd been mounting the bed and speaking simultaneously; or maybe due to some shadow of his usual pride censoring his joy. Harry notes that it must be a combination of the two, in whatever volumes of either one.

He doesn't push. He simply smiles as his lover snuggles up to him, plush lips brushing against the base of Potter's neck.

"That song ..." starts Draco, after a few minutes of silence had elapsed between them, "we were talking about recent memories and it came up. You remember, don't you? You said your wicked old Aunt Pulsatilla used to play it throughout the house while she cleaned."

"Petunia," Harry corrects, a warbling laugh sweet in his throat at what he's certain had been an intentional mistake. "And yes, she did. Dudley hated it, so she'd try to play it before he woke up. Of course, she always had me wake up earlier than him to make his breakfast and Vernon's coffee, so I heard it rather often. I grew to quite like it. Sometimes when Aunt Petunia was listening to it, she almost seemed like less of a bitter woman."

Draco listens intently, fingers tracing along Harry's chest as he speaks, eventually lining down his clothed abdomen. He is well-familiar with the concept of music bringing back memories.

"I like it, too," the blonde whispers, lips moving against Harry's warm skin, "it may be a stupid muggle song, but it's good."

"Not everything muggles do is stupid, Draco," chuckles Harry, and he feels the heir's lips curve against him.

They enter into a comfortable silence. With the heavy rise and fall of Draco's chest, Harry almost thinks him to be asleep - that is, until a soft, melodious sound caresses his ear.

" _The wild dogs cry out in the night ... as they grow restless longing for some solitary company._ "

Draco's voice sounds slightly different than it had in the streets. It sounds calmer, and more serious - as though he genuinely wishes to sound harmonious ... and it's working. Harry possessed some prior knowledge of Draco's vocal inclinations; he knew he could play piano beautifully, and had heard him hum along to a personal melody Harry could guess his mother had sang to him in his youngest years.

" _I know that I must do what's right. Sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti ..._ "

Enchanted, he doesn't have to be asked, this time.

" _I seek to cure what's deep inside, frightened of this thing that I've become._ "

Sitting up, suddenly, Draco settles his weight on top of Harry - straddling him, maintaining the proximity between their faces as their noses come to touch, lips just inches apart.

Like a shockwave of attraction had passed between their bound chests, the soft singing ensues naturally.

" _It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you ... there's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do. I bless the rains down in Africa ... gonna take some time to do the things we never have._ "

A single breath passes between them, heat conducting through one shared circuit of their bodies as Harry stretches his neck to rid them of any interfering distance. Draco moans almost as soon as their tongues engage - Harry had forgotten how much more sensitive his beloved can be when alcohol modifies his system; though Draco has always been very responsive to his touches, in general.

The swell of the older's rear brushes wantonly against Harry's groin, which stirs to life with interest. Registering the pulse of heat, Draco grinds down hard; moaning low into the younger man's mouth and around his tongue. All the while, slim hands slide along the hot columns of Potter's sides and meet at his middle, hastily unbuttoning the offending shirt and discarding of it somewhere unimportant. What comes into focus is the warm, tan skin now exposed in all its glory, though only the first barrier had been broken, as several articles of clothing pend removal.

Harry moans thick in his throat, spreading his legs enough to shift his hips so that he could grind up into Draco's ass at a new angle. Both of them gasp, the latter's hands rushing to Harry's waistband to pull his belt loose as quickly as possible. Deft fingers then waste no time in ripping open the other's fly and working his trousers down his hips.

A smooth laugh filters past Harry's breath, the kiss now broken as Draco directs all his focus to removing his lover's pants. "Eager, are we?"

"You're the one that was so insistent on picking up where we left off," exhales the blonde, dragging his tongue over the seam of his lips.

"Can you blame me? I've been thinking about it all night."

"You're a pervert, Harry Potter," huffs Malfoy through a smirk, successfully removing the barely-younger man's trousers.

"You tell me this as if you're not."

"Ah, fuck-" the swear is hissed through swollen lips as Harry emphasizes his words with a particularly hard thrust, once Draco has mounted him again. Their lips lock once more, breathless moans spilling from their throats as the room becomes impossibly and near unbearably hot.

Draco makes quick work of his remaining garments, leaving them both next to nude as solely their briefs obstruct complete bareness. Harry muses that the older man may be up to something the way he doesn't rush to peel away the final layer, seeming to shiver at this conscious restriction as they rut against one another with the hunger of starving animals.

Finally, after basking in their shared torture for long enough, the blonde reconnects their lips in a biting kiss, only for the trinity of lips, tongue, and teeth to trail a fiery crusade along Harry's neck, collarbone, chest, and abdomen - pink marks of varying depths like footprints recounting the lascivious journey.

"Draco," Harry pushes his beloved's name past the pleasure-induced lump in his throat, a string of shallow breaths trailing the address.

He only receives a low hum in response, aside from the action of polished fingers hooking onto the elastic band of the younger's underwear and pulling downward, with agonizing sloth about it. The Auror's frustrations are quelled, however, the moment full-lipped kisses are peppering the expanse of his shaft, like jewels encrusted along the crown of his leaking tip.

Harry's moans are catalysts to Draco's actions; the older soon commences a volley of long, languid flicks of his tongue from base to slit. His unbelievably pink tongue cups Harry's cock in a way that has the younger believing earnestly that the velvety muscle was crafted with this sole purpose in mind. Yet, the bespectacled of the two worries he won't last much longer with all this teasing.

"Draco," he warns, hands slowly coming to thread authoritatively in blades of white-blonde. Silvery eyes barely open - lids cracking just enough so that the pupil could penetrate the nest of milky lashes - but still focus on the commanding jade crystals just as intently centered on him.

Tension transcends eye contact and with little warning, the heir parts his lips and Potter is engulfed in his wet warmth. A guttural groan eventuates; the grip tugging at Malfoy's scalp tightening and prompting the Healer to swallow as much as he can. His tongue pressed flat against the shaft as he feels his throat open to take up to the last inch, savouring the unique taste of his lover.

The younger male can hardly handle his cock being so greedily imbibed, as though the innumerable glasses of whiskey that had burned a line of fire down Draco's throat earlier in the night were just practice.

Two years of dating offers immense experience - at least, it had for the two of them. They had learned each other's bodies like the backs of their own hands, and it shows with how much Draco has come to like driving Harry to insanity with the magic between his lips.

Malfoy bobs his head at what begins as a steady rhythm; creating that glorious friction they hadn't the time to accomplish earlier, and all the while lewd slurping sounds fill the room. And Harry loves it - Draco was right, after all. He is a pervert.

His shaft is slick with a concoction of the older man's saliva and his own precum by the time Potter urges him to pull off, fearing the proximity of an orgasm before he got to do what really had been in the back of his mind all night. Green eyes can't remove themselves from the plush, swollen, and wet lips of the white-haired boy; and the Auror is more than certain he sees thin rivulets of precum staining the pearl-pink surface.

He just stares at him for a while. This man is more than gorgeous enough to stare at for years on end, but the dark-haired male has a task in mind and being the heart of Gryffindor, he dives in headfirst.

"Come here," he requests, suddenly too-aware of the distance between their lips. No hesitation comes from Draco as he comes closer on all fours, crawling over his lover's body like it's holy.

It's unclear how the kiss is initiated, being that both men stretch the columns of their necks toward one another at the same time, but it doesn't matter. Lips crash against each other, open and hot and soon, the kiss is nearly all-tongue. The tan-skinned boy trails his hands down the sleek and lean curve of Malfoy's back; over the scars etched permanently into it and the plane of warm, ivory skin that guides him to the fitted band low on his hips. Harry isn't sure if he moans from the taste of himself on Draco's eager tongue, or how sexy he finds these low-rise briefs his beautiful boy always wears (he has a weakness for his slender hips and defined hipbones - especially that smooth slab of lower back just above his ass that, for some reason, makes him crazy), but either way the pale boy swallows his tone and reciprocates its rawness.

Draco hardly even realizes that he's naked, now - aside from when Potter's fingers brush against his hole. A sharp, loud moan tears from the base of his jugular, and he pushes his hips out so that the tight pucker gains even more exposure. Taking the hint, Harry circles his finger around it, breaking the kiss only to suck love-bites from the junction of Draco's jaw and neck down the side of his throat.

With his mouth no longer shrouded by Potter's, the older boy's moans fill the room like music, rising up to the ceiling as his hands claw down his lover's chest. Tiny vulgarities are audible through the throaty sounds, some even phrases like, "Fuck, Potter," and, "Shit, right there!"

The younger is somewhat amused, being that he's only been teasing his hole for these last few moments. He remembers, then, Malfoy is still a little drunk, meaning that his possessive and needy tendencies are either spiked or the effort to hide them is reduced. Added to the fact that it's been a few weeks since they'd had time to do anything besides oral, he discerns Malfoy's body must hunger to be full of him, again.

It's satisfying to be needed.

Mindlessly, Harry conjures up the bottle of lube from the dresser on the farthest side of the bed, not wanting to break this sweet contact for a even a moment. Draco is literally keening against him and his moans are so high, they sound like whines. Squeezing a generous amount onto his fingers, he traces the circumference of that tiny hole one last time before pushing his index deep inside, causing Draco to nearly choke on his own gasp. The white-haired throws his head back, exposing more of his neck for Harry to leave his mark, and perhaps unintentionally their cocks are pressed together at this point. As Malfoy pushes back on his lover's fingers, his shaft slides along Harry's and the both of them are lost in lust as a second finger presses into the tight heat.

"Just do it," Draco begs, characteristically smooth and confident voice wrecked and raspy with need. "You know I can take it. Please, just fuck me."

"Is that what you want?" Harry taunts, plunging his fingers in and out at an unreasonable speed, not to mention the frequent contact with Draco's sweet spot.

"Yes, Potter, you idiot! Why would I have asked for it if-"

"Convince me," coos the Auror, "beg me."

The Healer's moans crack and his head falls, bowed between his shoulders. Then, he looks up, eyes cloudy and brows lifted as desire paints his pale face pink. "Please, Harry," the heir speaks softly, but isn't quite whispering, "Please, fuck me. Harry."

The use of his given name - the name Malfoy rarely uses, even now - activates a near mechanical instinct in him to do just about whatever his lover wants. What a powerful weapon, and even drunk, Malfoy knows just how to use it.

As if considering what to do just for a fraction of time, the world is still. The primal desire to completely wreck this gorgeous boy on his lap overcomes Harry, and with it arrives the want to look him in the eye as he does it.

All at once, fingers are withdrawn and Malfoy is suddenly on his back - shoulders, neck, and head shoved into the many pillows fortressing the headboard with a muffled thud. His eyes would have widened but his body is too overwhelmed with lust that he can hardly open either oculus, though he can see enough to know that Harry's face is just above his own. He can feel their bodies connecting at every point except that vital one that his skin is burning for, his stomach turning for. His head falls back, turning to a side, lips parted wide and glistening bright - until finally, it happens. A familiar thickness pushes past his walls and opens him up; knees now bent and legs pressed up against his chest. Calloused hands grip the milky skin of Draco's flawless thighs, folding him as tightly as comfortability will allow, granting Harry unrestricted access to the hot, quivering entrance.

Staring down at his lover's body, he wishes that his thighs and cheeks were spotted with love-bites; his cock wet with saliva and thighs stained with precum, but there's a beauty to the security of their relationship that, Potter knows, will allow all of this to be accomplished another night - a night less desperate than tonight.

He isn't sure what it is. Maybe it had been his excitement to integrate the love of his life officially into his circle of brotherhood - maybe it had been the lack of time their busy lives offers to indulge in such activities. Or maybe, Draco Malfoy is a drug. A gorgeous, highly-addictive drug that's invaded each and every one of Harry's veins, with no intent of releasing him from its chokehold.

He finds the most probable answer lies in all of these truths - as damn good an Auror as he is.

Draco holds onto him like his life would leave him the moment one finger comes loose. It briefly reminds Harry of another time, in the Room of Requirement, where his life really had been in danger. It just feels good to be trusted by him, to be held by him.

Leaning down, Harry captures those bruised lips, bruising them further. He angles his hips to thrust downward into Draco, which he knows the older man loves, despite his sober self claiming such a position to be 'boring', though he never really seems bored at all whenever Harry takes him back to their first time.

Maybe Potter just has a way of making everything thrilling.

Loud, fluid moans pass from Draco's lips and right into Harry's mouth, the heir's arms clasping tight around his lover's shoulders as the thrusts gain so much force, his body is rocked back and forth, attested by the movement of the headboard behind them.

The heat is tight, slick, and familiar - like Draco's body is the best example of home Harry has found in his life. He pulls away from the kiss, though their noses still touch, and Draco's high-pitched moans still flutter free from his swollen, petal-pink lips. Their foreheads press together, and Draco opens his eyes as best he can, lips brushing against his lover's but not quite kissing them.

It's too intense - it's too much. His eyes are focused on no one and nothing but him and Draco feels like he might petrify under that intense gaze, but he returns it like his life depends on it. That is, until his body jolts when that cluster of nerves it driven into with impossible force. His eyes shut, his lips part in a partially-silent scream and he achieves an orgasm so strong it nearly leaves him  
numb.

Harry is close behind him, chasing after the stomach-tightening pleasure and instead finding himself backed into a corner by it when his lover's walls squeeze him for every last drop he's worth. Their mouths engage in a kiss so hard it's almost violent, Draco's back arching into Harry as he's filled with his essence. Euphoria comes to freeze them both, aside from the languid, exhausted movement of tongues against each other.

Neither of them have any idea how much time passes when they've finally come down from their high, just enough to remember what Earth is like. With a slow pop, Harry pulls out and just about collapses on top of Draco, who sighs, with arms still wrapped around him.

"Not to be dramatic," starts Harry, once his voice returns to him, "but this was probably the best night of my life."

Draco smiles, turning his head so that their noses could meet, yet again.

"I wouldn't call that dramatic."

"Right," Harry chuckles, "you know the most about being dramatic, don't you?"

"Shut up," Draco huffs, though any attempt to be convincingly serious is foiled by his following giggle.

"It's kind of sad that you had to be blackout drunk for most of tonight," murmurs Harry, after a few moments.

Draco is quiet, eyes focused on the foot of the bed for a moment before they finally meet Harry's.

"I wasn't that drunk."

A thick brow raises, and Harry looks at him. "Come again?"

"I wasn't," Draco repeats, "I mean yeah, I was pretty drunk but I wasn't as drunk as Weasley. I was pretending."

Harry sits up a little, cocking his head just to a side. "Why?"

Draco bites his lip, and turns over on his side, "Goodnight, Potter."

Harry blinks, only to smile and lean over Draco to whisper in his ear, "You did it so he wouldn't be embarrassed, didn't you?"

"Goodnight, Potter."

"You did!" laughs Harry, arms enclosing Draco's waist and chin perched atop his shoulder. "You're an angel in Devil's robes."

Draco doesn't respond, perhaps pretending to be asleep, but Harry can feel the heat given off by his cheeks.

"I love you, you know," the Auror's smile is near audible in his voice, and Draco finally turns in his arms, burying his face in his neck.

"I love you, too, Harry."

A sweet silence follows, after Harry spells the bedside light off.

"But if you ever tell Weasley that I pretended to be wankered for him, I'll hex the both of you."

**Author's Note:**

> [follow me on tumblr](http://malfoid.tumblr.com/) for more quality drarry garbage.
> 
> please review!!


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